The Audacious Spider-Punk
by TheHiddenComicBookShop
Summary: Rebel. Rockstar. Superhero. Inspired by his Uncle and the turbulent punk rock scene, Hobie Brown fights against the oppressive force of President Osborn through his music and spectacular spider-like abilities. As the tension rises, Hobie must deicide how he wants to change the world. An original story for Spider-Punk, an alternate universe Spider-man introduced in Spider-Verse.
#1

On what day did your life change forever?  
It happens to everyone sooner or later. Either you already know or it hasn't come down the road yet. For Hobie Brown, many would say that his life changed forever on the fated day his was bitten by a certain radioactive spider. But Hobie wouldn't. No, the day that changed his life forever occurred many years earlier.

* * *

"You sure you don't want anything to eat?" whispered his Aunt as he slowly made his way to his room.  
"No... Thanks, but I'm not... yeah." He responded, mustering not even enough energy to finish the sentence. His Aunt Maya watched him ascend the rickety steps of their flat with a look of concern etched upon her face; it was a look she would bear more and more as the years went on. Step by methodical step, he made his way to the top floor. The entire flat creaked as the overwhelming rattle of a passing train shook it by its foundations.  
 _'Another long day'._ He thought to himself as he turned the rusty door knob of his room. But he didn't enter. Something held him back. It a sick wave of realisation that froze him in place.  
"It was a week today wasn't it?" He muttered. "Already?"  
He turned and looked at room across the hallway, the one with the half torn "KEEP OUT" sticker pasted upon the old wood. It was his Uncle's study.

Hobie did not know what to expect. He dreaded to think what had become of his Uncle Brian's safe haven. With a little force, he reluctantly got it open. Light poured into the darkness, illuminating nothing more than a messy, empty room. Hobie didn't know why he was surprised, but he was. In fact, he found himself overcome with disappointment. The walls were littered by with scraps of paper, memories of posters torn from their rightful places. Chairs were broken, his uncle's desk overturned. Books deemed unimportant lay scattered across the floor, the rest taken. Oh no, they hadn't approved of Uncle Brian's reading at all. With an exasperated sigh, Hobie looked at an empty shelf in the corner. If they hadn't liked his uncle's taste in literature, they loathed his taste in music. It was all gone. His uncle was all gone. Hobie stifled frustrated tears. A week ago today he was having a quiet meal with his surrogate parents. He can't remember what they talked about, but the picture of his parents' smiling faces stung his heart. In a split second it was all over. Osborn's "Special Forces" poured into their home like a sea of angry wasps. It was nothing but noise and confusion and fear. Hobie attempt to leave his seat only to be pinned painfully to the ground. He couldn't even hear himself scream. Standing in that bleak room, Hobie ran his fingers down a now faded black eye. It still stung when he slept. He thought about how, when the dust had finally settled, his uncle was gone. His room had been raided and the house trashed. The papers the next day said Brian had been apprehended for "conspiracy to start a revolt". To this day, the headline made him sick. Hobie stood in the ruins of his uncle's dreams, using his wrist to vigorously rub stubborn tears from his eyes. At this point he still harboured a dim light of hope within him. He was scared to admit to himself, but he truly believed his uncle was still safe and alive somewhere out there.

Yet they never saw nor heard from Brian ever again.

But for now, Hobie still hung to hope. Without it he feared he would not even have the drive to get out of bed in the morning. With this in mind, he dutifully began the long task of clearing his uncle's study. He was still struggling to walk around and the work was slow, but he found it cathartic. Like he was somehow finally doing something to help his uncle. However, it was not long before he found something that shook his core and made the hair on his neck stand on end. Beneath the toppled desk, and hidden under a sprawled rug, lay the large case of a vinyl record.

 _'They missed one?'_ he thought to himself _'They missed one! Of course they did!'_ Osborn's special force was quick sure, but sloppy. His breathing became fast and heavy. His eyes darted frantically around the room, hungry for the something to play it with. He spied his uncle's old record player smashed to pieces.

"Fuck!" he expelled, now shaking with anticipation. He leapt to his feet, vinyl held in his iron grip. He sprinted, faster than he ever had, back to his room. He placed the record on his own player, and roughly covered his ears with the headphones his Uncle bought him. He fumbled his fingers to the play button and… paused. He sat with his finger over the button, breathing heavily. His Uncle had never let him listen to his music before. Maybe he was afraid they'd get scratched? Maybe he didn't want to lead Hobie into the same trouble he found himself in? This would be the first time. He picked up the case he had haphazardly tossed to the side and examined the art. It looked like it had been made by an amateur, though that was probably because it most definitely was. This wasn't the kind of music Osborn let make it to the shelves, Hobie already knew that. The cover showcased two defiant figures standing tall, dressed in blue jeans and leather jackets: bright red broken with raven black. They were standing on an underground railway track, a guitar and bass held aggressively in their respective hands. The young man stared at the onlooker out of the corner of his eye and with an air of irritation, while the blonde girl made eye contact with you, giving a knowing smirk. The image itself was stretched a bit too much to fit the case's dimensions, but it had a strange charm to it. Across the bottom, embezzled in hot crimson, were the words: "THE SCARLET SPIDERS".

He couldn't wait any more, he smashed the play button hard and leaned back, eyes closed, picturing himself that underground station.

"LISTEN UP WEBHEADS!"

The sound quality was poor and the voices slightly muffled by a large audience screaming for attention. Yet the voice of the young man came through crisp and powerful.

"PRESIDENT OSBORN WOULD HAVE YOU BELIEVE WHAT WE WILL BE DOING TONIGHT IS AWFUL"

The audience booed.

"HARMFUL!"

The audience booed louder.

"SINFUL!"

The audience cheered.

"WELL I SAY LET HIM. THIS ISN'T THE 1950S ANYMORE OSBORN. AND YOU-"

The audience's cheers grew louder. A strange sensation started to grow in Hobie's chest.

"- WILL NOT -"

The drums began, first soft, then louder and faster. Hobie clenched his fists.

"- HOLD US DOWN!"

The cheers were deafening. The drums were frenetic. The sensation in Hobie's chest buzzed in uncontrollable excitement.

"I'M PETER PARKER AND WE ARE YOUR SCARLET SPIDERS!"

The band burst into life and exploded a wave of punk rock noise down the cords of Hobie's headphones. Heavy guitar, savage drum solos, screams of "Fuck Norman the Goblin!" from the audience. The next few hours changed Hobie's life forever. He sat there in his room, listening to the record on repeat again and again. Night had fallen when he finally hit pause. He removed his headphones and made his way to his open window. The cool air felt good against his now hot skin. He looked across the city scape and surveyed it in a new light. Osborn tower, the looming behemoth, stared down upon the people of New York. But as Hobie looked up, he realised he now felt different from before. He no longer saw the tower nor what it represented, he looked beyond, taking in the stars dancing behind it. Any feelings of worthlessness and depression had been left in his Uncle's study. There was a new, more powerful feeling growing like a sturdy oak inside of him.

* * *

Presently, Hobie swung through the midnight city and landed upon his favourite gargoyle. He was pumped, it had been an exciting night already and it wasn't even one AM yet. He looked up at the full moon shining brightly upon Norman Obsborn's legacy and smirked. All these years later and he still felt that pounding fire in his gut as he stared upon the tower.

It was the flame of defiance.


End file.
